Thirty-six

hahinaz stands in my doorway. When she speaks, her voice comes from far away. You sounded odd on the phone. I thought I should conic and see you.' She is clutching a lot of things: Ahni d, his pushchair, what looks like a sleeping hag. She follows me inside. `Sohayl said I might as well stay the night as it's so late.'

It's late, she's saying and I don't know what time it is. If it is dark outside, it must he late.

She asks, 'Did they leave

It takes time for the question to reach and hurt me. I sense her waiting, her concern. 'Yes, they left this afternoon.' I)octora Zeinab acted fast, no dithering. She didn't want to risk me weakening; she didn't want to risk him changing his mind.

Shahinaz reaches for my hand. 'You're finding it hard, aren't you - but you did the right thing.'

'Last night I couldn't sleep and all day today I tried but I couldn't.'

She settles herself and I lie down again on the couch. I close my eyes and listen to her talking to Ahmed. 'Aunty's not well today.' Not well today. Not well today means that tomorrow I will be better. It is a realistic prediction, a reassuring one. I just have to wait. Tomorrow I can go to the travel agent, ask about Hajj packages, what prices they offer and how far is the hotel from the Prophet's Mosque. Ahmed is babbling away: words that don't make sense, strung together with inflections and exclamations of surprise, as if he is talking in a foreign language. His voice is lovely. I close my eyes. There is nothing to work out, just memories, impressions. Their plane would have landed in Cairo by now. I want to sleep; this is what I need more than anything else.

She says, `I'll make you some chamomile tea. It always makes me sleepy.'

I make myself sit up and smile at her. `Come, Ahmed, come and sit on my lap.' Instead, he crawls away from me fast, across the room. He pulls himself up to stand, leaning against a chair. He is playing a game with me, pausing, looking straight at me, smiling as if to tease me.

`Come,' I say, `come.'

He does at last and I lift him to sit on my lap. `Aren't you the cutest baby ever, or aren't you a baby any more? You're a big boy!'

`He's everywhere,' she says bringing the tea. `I have to keep the bathroom door closed otherwise he's in there throwing his toys in the loo.'

I tickle him. is this what you do, Ahmed, is it?' He laughs, proud of himself.

`Did you notice that mark on his skin?' She pulls back his juniper and on his forearm is a small black spot, like the splash of ink.

I run my fingers over it. `Maybe it's a beauty spot. Was he horn with it?'

`I'm not sure. Maybe I just never noticed it before. I hope it's nothing serious.'

For a minute, for a whole blessed minute, I forget about myself, become immersed in her concern.

'Ask your mother-in-law.'

`Yes, I will.' She removes the telephone cord from Ahmed's grasp. He has been chewing it.

I run my finger over Ahmed's arm. 'You're perfect, aren't you? Mummy is just fussing over little faults in you.'

He chuckles and turns to gaze at his first love. She looks at him with possessiveness and an ache I don't understand.

She sighs, `Come on, Najwa. Let's pray so we can go to sleep.'

She leads because I am not up to it. Her gentle voice calms me down; it is easy to focus on the words she is hesitantly saying. Ahmed climbs on her back, he hangs on to her neck and makes it difficult for her to stand. My concentration breaks. I almost laugh at his antics and then the words come again, pulling me hack. No matter what, I will return. This is my base and goal; everything else is variable.

We sort ourselves out for the night. Shahinaz and Ahmed on the couch and I on the floor. I lie awake, listening to her breathing. I am amazed to discover that Ahmed, baby Ahmed, snores. There is a taxi outside. I know it is a taxi by the sound of its brakes. They took a taxi to Heathrow this morning. They kissed Lamya and Mai goodbye. I see myself standing at the door of the flat saying goodbye to Doctora Zeinab. Tamer and I are helping her with the suitcases. He looks at me. This is not a dream; this is a replay of the time his mother left London to go to the conference in the States. She hands me a crisp ten-pound note, a tip. I take it as I am meant to take it, as a maid takes from an employer, but I am flustered because he is standing next to her, because he is watching me put the money away.

Shahinaz says, 'You took the money, so it can't have been love.' I must be falling asleep and her voice a dream, because she wouldn't say that in real life. It is not something she is likely to say. I am not well. I have a fever and I need my parents' room. I need their bed; its clean sheets, the privilege. I climb dark steep stairs to their room and there is the bed I have been fretting for. My mother's voice, her cool hand on my forehead. She gives me a spoonful of medicine, delicious cough syrup that burns my throat. Omar is sulking. He is jealous because I am ill and important. He wants something from me and Mania says, `Leave her alone, can't you see she's burning.' I look up into my father's anxious face, his warm hand on my cheeks. I smell his cologne. He shouts at my mother, `Put her on a course of antibiotics, you can't leave her like this!' I roll over, luxurious, sure that they love me. Around us, beyond the bed, the room is dark and cluttered, all the possessions that distinguish us in ruins. I am not surprised. It is a natural decay and I accept it. Carpets threadbare and curtains torn. Valuables squashed and stamped with filth. Things that must not be seen, shameful things, are exposed. The ceiling has caved in, the floor is gutted and the crumbling walls are smeared with guilt.